I have just received a visit from "your local Labour candidate" as he called himself. I don't have a Labour candidate! I wouldn't know what to do with one if I had one - target practice with the old shotgun, perhaps?
Anyway, the cheeky bugger came walking up the driveway and started banging on the door. As you might have gathered, he woke up the Rotts, so there wasn't much left of his trousers about ten seconds later. He started ranting about dangerous dogs, upper classes laying traps for the workers and so on. So, I had to invite him in and placate him, at least until I could find him an old pair of the gardener's trousers and call him a cab that was prepared to take him south of the river.
While he was sitting in the drawing room waiting for the cab, downing large glasses of vintage Johnny Walker Black label, and chain smoking my full-size Havana Romeo y Julietas, he started banging on about his lot's smoking ban.
"The government ban on smoking," he explained, "has a secret agenda: to improve the health and wealth of the nation. But not for smoking related diseases." This is how he explained it to me.
"Nobody could have failed to notice the rise in nudity, graphic illustrations of sex and blatant pornography now available on television and generally in the media. City streets are filling up with nude table dancing clubs; and cinemas are now showing films depicting sex acts that, twenty years ago, would have had the distributors down at the Old Bailey in a heartbeat. The internet provides every form of pornography even the most perverted mind could want at the flourish of a credit card and the click of a mouse."
"All of these sources of virtual sex are, of course, no more than a poor substitute for the real thing; [I agreed with that!] but the government is happy to permit them wherever they pop up. It is what the BBC describes, in glowing terms as an achievement of the Blair years, as the "liberalisation of society".
"Now, what has any of this to do with smoking you may ask?" he said. "Well the answer, although not at first straightforward, is obvious once you think about it for a minute."
"In films, going back at least to the nineteen-thirties, smoking has been portrayed by Hollywood as cool and sexy, part of the romantic ritual. Just cast your mind back to flickering black and white images of the masculine hero, lighting two cigarettes and passing one to his beloved; or the hero and heroine, cigarettes in hand, staring at each other across the table, with love in their eyes, a 100 piece orchestra playing and her eyes welling up with tears" [probably due to the haze of smoke she was sitting in, I thought].
"In later, more avant garde offerings from France, the couple would lie back in bed following the culmination of their passion - and light up a cigarette while they discussed how much they were in love. This created in the minds of the audience the clear image that the cigarette afterwards was the normal, trendy way to conclude such an encounter, before turning over and going to sleep, going home, or whatever else came next in their lives."
"Today, we understand that casual sex is socially irresponsible as it can lead to unwanted pregnancies and extremely unpleasant, sexually-tranmitted diseases. The government also understands this, and is naturally very concerned about how much Health Service money child birth and STD treatment are diverting away from its project of creating more jobs in the NHS" [for bloody incompetent managers and bureaucrats, I thought, but let him continue].
"So, we come to the point," he said. [Thank God, I thought] "The government is encouraging the provision of vicarious sexual images and contact from a host of different sources, all delivered directly to your High Street, television and computer on demand. These constitute the ultimate form of safe sex, as the one element missing from them is ... er ... sex. No chance of getting pregnant, or of needing a quick trip to the STD clinic on Monday morning, after a few lap dances or an evening surfing the net."
"However, every time someone lights up a cigarette, or sees someone else do so, there is a danger that they might be reminded of those old movies, and think about indulging in the real thing. The simple and effective measure for the Nanny State" [he was pretty pissed on the Scotch by this time, so didn't mince his words] "to guarantee sexual health, prevent all those unwanted pregnancies among the oiks, I mean voters, and save shed loads of money, therefore, is to ban smoking, initially in all public places - and then in the bedroom. Simple really."
So I said, "Yes. I don't know why I didn't see it before," put him in the cab, lit up a Havana, and left myself a note to fire the gardener for leaving the gate unlocked.
Take care,
Justin
Sunday, 15 July 2007
Smoking
On 1 July, this Communist government put the final nail in coffin and buried virtually our last civil liberty. They made it illegal for me to smoke at Annabel's or in my favourite wine bars.
And, as the Lamborghini is a company car, and the girl friend, who also drives it, is a director, it's now illegal to smoke in that. There goes another tax loophole. These bloody communists should be taken outside and strung up, while we blow smoke on them!
I'm also fed up with the anti-cigarette lobby. All those miserable, sour-faced, Guardian-reading, BBC-loving, whining, Stalinist extremists make me sick.
Stop inhaling my passive smoke. I paid for it, I was taxed on it, I stood in the wind and the rain to enjoy it. If you want to smoke, buy your own.
And to dismiss another myth: cigarettes are healthy. I will repeat that louder for the hard of hearing: CIGARETTES ARE HEALTHY!
The average cigarette is high in fibre; contains no sugar or salt and no artificial flavouring or colouring; no cholesterol; does not cause polution and has no effect on the ozone layer; and is comprised of entirely natural products. As long as you don't set fire to it, that is ... but I'm working on that small problem.
Nobody ever got drunk from smoking a pack of cigarettes and then went out and crashed their car. Nobody ever smoked a pack of cigarettes and started a fight in a pub, or went home and beat up their wife and children. It is a peaceful, relaxing sort of pastime.
In fact, we are so relaxed that we make a soft target for the health and safety fascists, who are far too chicken to take on a bunch of fighting drunks. They prefer to victimise happy, sociable, laid back, relaxed smokers.
Leave us alone. We're not harming anyone else. Pick on the drug takers, or the muggers, or the city centre drunks, or any of the other Labour-engendered miscreants that seem to be the main growth industries of 21st Century Britain.
Right. I've had enough. As Bugs Bunny used to say: this means war. I'm off outside to find someone reading the Guardian and blow smoke in their face.
Take care.
Justin
And, as the Lamborghini is a company car, and the girl friend, who also drives it, is a director, it's now illegal to smoke in that. There goes another tax loophole. These bloody communists should be taken outside and strung up, while we blow smoke on them!
I'm also fed up with the anti-cigarette lobby. All those miserable, sour-faced, Guardian-reading, BBC-loving, whining, Stalinist extremists make me sick.
Stop inhaling my passive smoke. I paid for it, I was taxed on it, I stood in the wind and the rain to enjoy it. If you want to smoke, buy your own.
And to dismiss another myth: cigarettes are healthy. I will repeat that louder for the hard of hearing: CIGARETTES ARE HEALTHY!
The average cigarette is high in fibre; contains no sugar or salt and no artificial flavouring or colouring; no cholesterol; does not cause polution and has no effect on the ozone layer; and is comprised of entirely natural products. As long as you don't set fire to it, that is ... but I'm working on that small problem.
Nobody ever got drunk from smoking a pack of cigarettes and then went out and crashed their car. Nobody ever smoked a pack of cigarettes and started a fight in a pub, or went home and beat up their wife and children. It is a peaceful, relaxing sort of pastime.
In fact, we are so relaxed that we make a soft target for the health and safety fascists, who are far too chicken to take on a bunch of fighting drunks. They prefer to victimise happy, sociable, laid back, relaxed smokers.
Leave us alone. We're not harming anyone else. Pick on the drug takers, or the muggers, or the city centre drunks, or any of the other Labour-engendered miscreants that seem to be the main growth industries of 21st Century Britain.
Right. I've had enough. As Bugs Bunny used to say: this means war. I'm off outside to find someone reading the Guardian and blow smoke in their face.
Take care.
Justin
Harry Potter
Hi. It's Justin. I’’ve got a bit of a hangover... Bit?... Actually, it feels like Armageddon’s just started between my ears!
Anyway, I heard about this bloody silly competition in one of the national newspapers, to write the ending to the new Harry Potter novel, when I was down at Annabel’s early this morning (I think it was about 3am; but I’d downed a couple of bottles of vintage Krug and a few armagnacs by that time, so it’s all a bit hazy).
My lawyer had a bet with me (double or nothing his last bill) that I couldn’t write an ending to this Potter nonsense and win the competition. I needed a financial incentive 'cause the newspaper’s too tight to stump up for a prize.
So, here goes.
While this spotty, four-eyed, little swat, Potter, was flying round on his broomstick, massacring his school friends, and posing for the media, a meeting of the gods of Bloomsbury was taking place in a secret location.
Pause there. Why didn’t this Rowling woman, the one who wrote this load of old tosh, send him to a decent school? I looked up Hogwarts in the ISIS list, and nothing. So it must be a state school. Pretty poor role model if you ask me. At least Eton would have taught him to speak properly. Mind you, if old Cameron’s “man of the people” accent starts to catch on, all that will go down the pan too.
Where was I? (God, I need a strong coffee and a couple of aspirins!) Oh yes! Gods of Bloomsbury. “So,” the head god says, “what are we going to do about this Potter nonsense? We managed to get the oiks to start buying books for their ‘kids’, as they call them, for a while. And some of them may even have read a chapter or two before their attention wandered back to vandalism. But now they’re listening to brain-dead pop music on their I-Pods again, and staring into space with their mouths open.”
“Well,” said the beautiful, blonde goddess Row Ling, “we can’t keep churning out the same boring old stuff. Potter will have to leave school soon. What are we going to do then? Send him to a red brick university? Make him a Lloyd’s underwriter, or a City broker?. If you think I’m going to write ‘Potter Takes a Gap Year’, you can think again.”
“That’s a problem, chaps” said the head god. “No Potter, no money!” All the gods leaned forward to listen to what the head god had to say next.
“Suppose we start to kill off a few of the more boring characters? You know, nothing permanent or disfiguring, in case the oiks start whinging. Just disappearing in puffs of smoke. If you can magic them away, you can always magic them back in one piece when you need them.” All the gods were nodding with approval at that point.
“And we can announce that the latest volume is the last book,” sharp intakes of breath and horror-struck faces all round.
“That will attract a shed load of publicity. Then, when we release the next instalment ('Potter Gets an ASBO'?) our change of heart will be another headline story,” sighs of relief all round.
“That way, we can keep churning out the same old stuff for another few years, and I can buy a new Lamborghini.” Which is how it came about that the first of a series of "last volumes" was published, in which a couple of Potter’s class mates were zapped by reversible magic spells. You know, the sort that don’t leave a scar.
Anyway, I heard about this bloody silly competition in one of the national newspapers, to write the ending to the new Harry Potter novel, when I was down at Annabel’s early this morning (I think it was about 3am; but I’d downed a couple of bottles of vintage Krug and a few armagnacs by that time, so it’s all a bit hazy).
My lawyer had a bet with me (double or nothing his last bill) that I couldn’t write an ending to this Potter nonsense and win the competition. I needed a financial incentive 'cause the newspaper’s too tight to stump up for a prize.
So, here goes.
While this spotty, four-eyed, little swat, Potter, was flying round on his broomstick, massacring his school friends, and posing for the media, a meeting of the gods of Bloomsbury was taking place in a secret location.
Pause there. Why didn’t this Rowling woman, the one who wrote this load of old tosh, send him to a decent school? I looked up Hogwarts in the ISIS list, and nothing. So it must be a state school. Pretty poor role model if you ask me. At least Eton would have taught him to speak properly. Mind you, if old Cameron’s “man of the people” accent starts to catch on, all that will go down the pan too.
Where was I? (God, I need a strong coffee and a couple of aspirins!) Oh yes! Gods of Bloomsbury. “So,” the head god says, “what are we going to do about this Potter nonsense? We managed to get the oiks to start buying books for their ‘kids’, as they call them, for a while. And some of them may even have read a chapter or two before their attention wandered back to vandalism. But now they’re listening to brain-dead pop music on their I-Pods again, and staring into space with their mouths open.”
“Well,” said the beautiful, blonde goddess Row Ling, “we can’t keep churning out the same boring old stuff. Potter will have to leave school soon. What are we going to do then? Send him to a red brick university? Make him a Lloyd’s underwriter, or a City broker?. If you think I’m going to write ‘Potter Takes a Gap Year’, you can think again.”
“That’s a problem, chaps” said the head god. “No Potter, no money!” All the gods leaned forward to listen to what the head god had to say next.
“Suppose we start to kill off a few of the more boring characters? You know, nothing permanent or disfiguring, in case the oiks start whinging. Just disappearing in puffs of smoke. If you can magic them away, you can always magic them back in one piece when you need them.” All the gods were nodding with approval at that point.
“And we can announce that the latest volume is the last book,” sharp intakes of breath and horror-struck faces all round.
“That will attract a shed load of publicity. Then, when we release the next instalment ('Potter Gets an ASBO'?) our change of heart will be another headline story,” sighs of relief all round.
“That way, we can keep churning out the same old stuff for another few years, and I can buy a new Lamborghini.” Which is how it came about that the first of a series of "last volumes" was published, in which a couple of Potter’s class mates were zapped by reversible magic spells. You know, the sort that don’t leave a scar.
I hate Doctors!
You remember when the jolly old filth visited Justin Towers enquiring about JC's land speed record attempt down the M40? As I said, I saw a glimmer of something promising in the looks I was getting from WPC Tracey. Then I started having these fantasies about being handcuffed to the bed and ravished by a woman in uniform, so I gave her a call. Since I am so devastatingly attractive to women, the usual run of beautiful models, actresses, duchesses daughters and princesses (that's a story for another day!) can get a bit boring. And there's nothing like a bit of rough to lift the old spirits.
So, to cut a long story short, I met up with Tracey 'down the nick' (as she called it) last Monday night at 2am, on my way back from Boujis. We'd had one or two smouldering conversations on the old mobile, culminating in her promising to do unspeakable things to me in the cells. She told me the other coppers would be dossing in the police canteen exchanging ‘how I fitted him up’ stories.
As the cells were all empty, because the regulars had been shipped off to Bow Street that morning, they had left her on guard on her own - so the stage was set.
Without going into too much detail, Tracey turned out to be very fond of the old pink truncheon. So, that night I was banged up, and regally banged, in the cells. Can't think why these old lags plead not guilty and complain about prison conditions. No complaints about how she treated me, I assure you!
Anyway, about 4am Tracey, wearing only police-issue pavement plodders, stockings, suspenders, police helmet and a big smile, slipped out to get a couple of mugs of tea, leaving me handcuffed to the bed wearing nothing but my bow tie (silly cow said it looked cute - but I've learned not to argue with the ladies when it might put the old leg-over in jeopardy. Apparently, it's house rules to give a refreshment break before the next interrogation session, and she said she had a few more things she wanted to get out of me. At that point, I heard a lot of shouting in the corridor, then in walked Bert (who you will remember was Tracey's partner in the squad car).
"So, you've been doin' my missus, 'ave you?" Well, what followed next was a bit too painful to recite here; but I can tell you that when Bert, and his "mate" Harry, who joined in the fun, had finished with me, I would have signed a statement admitting to 9/11, and done my 20 years quietly, to get out of there.
Anyway, when the day shift came on duty, they made me sign a statement to say I fell down the stone steps, and then turfed me out the back door.
So, you will be asking by now, what the hell has all this got to do with doctors. Well, I was obviously in a bit of a state after my training course in the use of truncheons and wet flannels (to hide the marks apparently) but that wasn't the problem. I told JC I got a bit pissed and fell a*** over t** down the front steps of the family pile, and she was extremely sympathetic. However, by the following Friday, I had started to have a bit of an itchy problem in the nether regions. So I shot down to Harley Street to see the doc for a drop of the old penicillin.
As this was an emergency appointment, sods law, he was out wandering around the hospital - eying up the nurses, or giving private tutorials at the Dorchester to attractive young female students "who are prepared to put in a little extra effort for a first" as he puts it, or whatever else they do when they're skiving off.
I was busy looking at the warning signs on the wall, and wondering if there is anything healthy left to do in this god-forsaken, commie-dominated world, when I heard the receptionist saying, Lord Justin, Dr De'ath will see you now. That should have set my bells ringing. Dr Death! But I wasn't really listening, what with a desperate need to scratch down below, and wondering how I was going to explain my sudden need for abstinence to my resident nymphomaniac, JC.
When I walked in, this absolutely stunning, curvaceous, young blonde was sitting on the desk, huge brown eyes, short skirt, black stockings, legs crossed, heaving cleavage, the whole works, flashing me the most provocative 'come and get it' smile I have ever seen in daylight. Now, normally, I would have instantly asked for a full examination, followed by some alternative therapy; but I wasn't really up for it at that moment, what with the wedding tackle not being fully operational and all.
"Good morning, Lord Justin. What seems to be the trouble?", still smiling, full red lips, white teeth, purring voice.
I then explained the relevant parts, culminating in a description of the symptoms.
"So, how did you get all these bruises?", smile even wider. "I need to know all the details if I am to prescribe the correct treatment."
By now, drowning helplessly in those limpid eyes, and already planning the dirty weekend she and I would be having once the old anti-biotics had done the trick, I told her the whole story, right down to my question and answer session with Bert and Harry, and unceremoniously ending up in the alley behind the cop shop.
As I told the story, the smile became even wider and more inviting.
"You poor thing. That's terrible. The handcuffs sound really interesting. Perhaps you could show me how that works, some time - soon" purring even more seductively.
Having got all that stuff off my chest, to a sympathetic listener, and lined her up for a bit of physical therapy on the Med the following week, I was already feeling a lot better. So we got back to business and she examined me.
"I'm afraid you have a very serious STD, Lord Justin. I will need to treat this now or it might spread to your brain. It could be fatal"
With that, she took out various extremely unpleasant stainless steel instruments and spent the next 2 hours carrying out a most painful series of internal procedures, straight out of a Stephen King film. And no anaesthetic, she explained, as this would cause the infection to flare up. Anyway, despite the agony, I was so, you know, grateful, that I put up with it all like a man.
"Now, Lord Justin, you will need to inform anyone that you have slept with since your night in the cells. They might also have caught it"
I thanked her, confirmed the arrangements to fly down in the Lear the following week, she kissed me on the cheek, and I headed off home.
Since JC's sympathy had extended to a little alternative therapy of her own over the previous few days, I had no choice but to tell her. God, at the very least, it was going to cost me the total shoe output of northern Italy to wriggle out of this one.
When I told JC, that evening, predictably all hell broke loose. The staff have spent the last few days supergluing the Ming vases back together, in case Mummy comes round unannounced. But, eventually, vast doses of retail therapy, humble pie, and lies about it all being her fault that I was taken down to the cells, chained up, and exploited by a law enforcement dominatrix in the first place, she forgave me.
The following day, I got a follow up call from the family doc. Copious apologies for not being there when I called, urgent academic duties to carry out, duty to the profession to service the young students, all in the interests of equal opportunities for the female students, etc. Then we discussed Dr De'ath.
"Dr De'ath is a very gifted young woman and a fine doctor. Graduated top of her class. I was her personal tutor and I was very impressed, so I offered her a job. Did she treat you well?"
"Fine ... in the circumstances!"
"And you wouldn't have expected her to be so intelligent and successful, coming from her background. She is the only doctor in her family. She has one brother, but he's a policeman with the Kensington Met, Bert De'ath."
I was already speechless at this point.
"Anyway, the good news is that there was nothing wrong with you. Just a bit of eczema. So you won't have to go through all those painful scrapes - and have to tell your girl friend what you've been getting up to on the side, eh?"
I remember the phone slipping from my hand before it all went dark…
Take care.
Justin
So, to cut a long story short, I met up with Tracey 'down the nick' (as she called it) last Monday night at 2am, on my way back from Boujis. We'd had one or two smouldering conversations on the old mobile, culminating in her promising to do unspeakable things to me in the cells. She told me the other coppers would be dossing in the police canteen exchanging ‘how I fitted him up’ stories.
As the cells were all empty, because the regulars had been shipped off to Bow Street that morning, they had left her on guard on her own - so the stage was set.
Without going into too much detail, Tracey turned out to be very fond of the old pink truncheon. So, that night I was banged up, and regally banged, in the cells. Can't think why these old lags plead not guilty and complain about prison conditions. No complaints about how she treated me, I assure you!
Anyway, about 4am Tracey, wearing only police-issue pavement plodders, stockings, suspenders, police helmet and a big smile, slipped out to get a couple of mugs of tea, leaving me handcuffed to the bed wearing nothing but my bow tie (silly cow said it looked cute - but I've learned not to argue with the ladies when it might put the old leg-over in jeopardy. Apparently, it's house rules to give a refreshment break before the next interrogation session, and she said she had a few more things she wanted to get out of me. At that point, I heard a lot of shouting in the corridor, then in walked Bert (who you will remember was Tracey's partner in the squad car).
"So, you've been doin' my missus, 'ave you?" Well, what followed next was a bit too painful to recite here; but I can tell you that when Bert, and his "mate" Harry, who joined in the fun, had finished with me, I would have signed a statement admitting to 9/11, and done my 20 years quietly, to get out of there.
Anyway, when the day shift came on duty, they made me sign a statement to say I fell down the stone steps, and then turfed me out the back door.
So, you will be asking by now, what the hell has all this got to do with doctors. Well, I was obviously in a bit of a state after my training course in the use of truncheons and wet flannels (to hide the marks apparently) but that wasn't the problem. I told JC I got a bit pissed and fell a*** over t** down the front steps of the family pile, and she was extremely sympathetic. However, by the following Friday, I had started to have a bit of an itchy problem in the nether regions. So I shot down to Harley Street to see the doc for a drop of the old penicillin.
As this was an emergency appointment, sods law, he was out wandering around the hospital - eying up the nurses, or giving private tutorials at the Dorchester to attractive young female students "who are prepared to put in a little extra effort for a first" as he puts it, or whatever else they do when they're skiving off.
I was busy looking at the warning signs on the wall, and wondering if there is anything healthy left to do in this god-forsaken, commie-dominated world, when I heard the receptionist saying, Lord Justin, Dr De'ath will see you now. That should have set my bells ringing. Dr Death! But I wasn't really listening, what with a desperate need to scratch down below, and wondering how I was going to explain my sudden need for abstinence to my resident nymphomaniac, JC.
When I walked in, this absolutely stunning, curvaceous, young blonde was sitting on the desk, huge brown eyes, short skirt, black stockings, legs crossed, heaving cleavage, the whole works, flashing me the most provocative 'come and get it' smile I have ever seen in daylight. Now, normally, I would have instantly asked for a full examination, followed by some alternative therapy; but I wasn't really up for it at that moment, what with the wedding tackle not being fully operational and all.
"Good morning, Lord Justin. What seems to be the trouble?", still smiling, full red lips, white teeth, purring voice.
I then explained the relevant parts, culminating in a description of the symptoms.
"So, how did you get all these bruises?", smile even wider. "I need to know all the details if I am to prescribe the correct treatment."
By now, drowning helplessly in those limpid eyes, and already planning the dirty weekend she and I would be having once the old anti-biotics had done the trick, I told her the whole story, right down to my question and answer session with Bert and Harry, and unceremoniously ending up in the alley behind the cop shop.
As I told the story, the smile became even wider and more inviting.
"You poor thing. That's terrible. The handcuffs sound really interesting. Perhaps you could show me how that works, some time - soon" purring even more seductively.
Having got all that stuff off my chest, to a sympathetic listener, and lined her up for a bit of physical therapy on the Med the following week, I was already feeling a lot better. So we got back to business and she examined me.
"I'm afraid you have a very serious STD, Lord Justin. I will need to treat this now or it might spread to your brain. It could be fatal"
With that, she took out various extremely unpleasant stainless steel instruments and spent the next 2 hours carrying out a most painful series of internal procedures, straight out of a Stephen King film. And no anaesthetic, she explained, as this would cause the infection to flare up. Anyway, despite the agony, I was so, you know, grateful, that I put up with it all like a man.
"Now, Lord Justin, you will need to inform anyone that you have slept with since your night in the cells. They might also have caught it"
I thanked her, confirmed the arrangements to fly down in the Lear the following week, she kissed me on the cheek, and I headed off home.
Since JC's sympathy had extended to a little alternative therapy of her own over the previous few days, I had no choice but to tell her. God, at the very least, it was going to cost me the total shoe output of northern Italy to wriggle out of this one.
When I told JC, that evening, predictably all hell broke loose. The staff have spent the last few days supergluing the Ming vases back together, in case Mummy comes round unannounced. But, eventually, vast doses of retail therapy, humble pie, and lies about it all being her fault that I was taken down to the cells, chained up, and exploited by a law enforcement dominatrix in the first place, she forgave me.
The following day, I got a follow up call from the family doc. Copious apologies for not being there when I called, urgent academic duties to carry out, duty to the profession to service the young students, all in the interests of equal opportunities for the female students, etc. Then we discussed Dr De'ath.
"Dr De'ath is a very gifted young woman and a fine doctor. Graduated top of her class. I was her personal tutor and I was very impressed, so I offered her a job. Did she treat you well?"
"Fine ... in the circumstances!"
"And you wouldn't have expected her to be so intelligent and successful, coming from her background. She is the only doctor in her family. She has one brother, but he's a policeman with the Kensington Met, Bert De'ath."
I was already speechless at this point.
"Anyway, the good news is that there was nothing wrong with you. Just a bit of eczema. So you won't have to go through all those painful scrapes - and have to tell your girl friend what you've been getting up to on the side, eh?"
I remember the phone slipping from my hand before it all went dark…
Take care.
Justin
Global Warming
Hello,
Justin here. One of my completely ethical and legal offshore companies has a vacancy. If you are interested in applying, leave a comment here. This is the advert:
VACANCY
A key position has arisen for a senior executive in GLOBAL WARMING LIMITED, the leading multi-billion dollar turnover, multinational in the Western World.
We are the pre-eminent company in the manufacture of PSEUDO-SCIENCE, a new technology destined to replace religion as the main faith in the civilised world.
Harnessing the power of the carbon dioxide exhaled by politicians, community leaders and scientists hungry for research grants, and satisfying the ever increasing need in Western society to balance affluence with a non-specific sense of guilt that does not involve helping our fellow man towards equal prosperity, our product, which is currently bought without question by the populations of every developed country, is destined to generate record incomes for exchequers worldwide and to go down in history as the greatest commercial success story since the South Sea Bubble.
We are looking for ambitious men and women who enjoy the challenge of exploiting, on a massive scale, the gullibility of whole populations anxious to find something, anything, which is not susceptible to rational argument but which they can follow mindlessly in the post-religion, post-Marxism age. Total lack of morality is a pre-requisite for this position; as is an unflinching belief in your own propaganda. Experience selling bridges to tourists would be a distinct advantage, but full training will be given.
So, if you want to join a highly successful FAITH BASED COMPANY manufacturing and selling the world’s most profitable product, exempt from any form of legal or moral constraints,
apply now to www.back_to_the-stone_age.com quoting reference "CO2".
Justin here. One of my completely ethical and legal offshore companies has a vacancy. If you are interested in applying, leave a comment here. This is the advert:
VACANCY
A key position has arisen for a senior executive in GLOBAL WARMING LIMITED, the leading multi-billion dollar turnover, multinational in the Western World.
We are the pre-eminent company in the manufacture of PSEUDO-SCIENCE, a new technology destined to replace religion as the main faith in the civilised world.
Harnessing the power of the carbon dioxide exhaled by politicians, community leaders and scientists hungry for research grants, and satisfying the ever increasing need in Western society to balance affluence with a non-specific sense of guilt that does not involve helping our fellow man towards equal prosperity, our product, which is currently bought without question by the populations of every developed country, is destined to generate record incomes for exchequers worldwide and to go down in history as the greatest commercial success story since the South Sea Bubble.
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I hate Brunettes!
Hello! It's Justin again.
I'm so rich, important and devastatingly attractive that you must all be dying to hear more from me.
Well, when I left you, I was heading for Cannes with JC. She had told me that the disgusting film festival had finished, so I thought it would be safe to jump in a jet and fly down there for a couple of days of sun and the odd party. As usual, JC had got it like so wrong. The Gallic oscars were still in full swing.
When we arrived, it was absolutely like, you know, gross, if you know what I mean. The place was running alive with posey cinema wannabes, unshaven, sweaty paparazzi and crowds of Froggy plebs smelling of garlic. The most disgusting swathe of humanity I have seen since the last time Daddy invited the local peasants up to the stately pile in Suffolk for the annual "feed cheese and pickle sandwiches and pints of beer to the poor and let their spotty kids (a kid is a working class child) leave sticky finger marks all over the F430" day he holds every August Bank Holiday. I've always thought the old man was barking to allow all those light-fingered oiks near the house, but he says it's doing his bit for society, whatever that is.
Anyway, even though the Lear driver had jammed down the joy stick all the way down there, by the time we arrived, it was like 2am. I called the Intercontinental and got my usual suite for the night for a bit of shut eye, and some serious amends-making by JC! Pierre, the driver had to negotiate the Maybach through crowds of really y' know revolting sub-humanity milling on the streets to get there. I would have put my foot down and ploughed through them, but Pierre (I don't know what his real name is, but I always call Frenchmen Pierre to avoid confusion) told me that they have laws against that sort of thing in France. Then he started muttering about prisons, guillotines and human rights, so I closed the divider and turned up the Cold Play track to drown out his pigeon English ramblings.
I always get up early when I'm on holiday. So, about noon, we ordered some croissants and coffee in the room. It was decision time. Would I get Pierre to take JC and I down to Monaco to get out on the yacht and avoid the seething peasants, or go back to London until the heat had died down. The weather was not perfect, so we went home.
That evening, I heard the Rotts going like wild outside. I looked on the CCTV and saw a police car at the gate, so I buzzed him in. When he drove up to the house, the Rotts were jumping all over it and two plod, one male and one who appeared vaguely female, were cowering inside screaming "get them off".
So, I put the puppies in the garage and invited Bert and Tracey, as I later discovered were their names, in for a chat. Couldn't figure out what they you know wanted at this point. They don't normally send sort of uniformed oiks out for fraud or tax evasion, and I knew I hadn't done anything else wrong.
Bert began, "Are you the owner of a Ferrari F430 registration number R1 CH?"
"Yes officer. But it's in the garage, so I know it hasn't been stolen or anything."
"No ... sir (have you ever noticed how the police can insert that crucial pause to make the word "sir" sound like an insult?). That's not what we are here for."
Anyway, to cut a long story short, it seems that when JC had gone up to Tundra Airport to collect the F430, she had broken one or two little laws on the way back, including overtaking a squad car on the M40 at about 180mph. This was their opinion because they couldn't pace her and the old speed cameras don't work if you are doing more than 150mph (couldn't say myself, of course!).
It turned out that JC, a very fashion conscious girl, had rushed off to the frozen north without dressing for the occasion. It was only when she got there that she realised that her sugar-pink halter top, micro mini-skirt and eight inch Jimmy Choo platforms, and matching pink-dyed (normally brunette) hair so like clashed with the red Ferrari. She thought, very understandably, that she would be like so dead if anyone saw her. So she jumped in the car and headed for the motorway via anonymous, unlit back roads and then bombed it back to SW3 as fast as she could.
To make things worse, this outfit was, shall we say, a tad revealing. In fact, before she wore it, she took a legal opinion on whether it would cause her to be nicked for public nudity. The outfit consisted of a belt where you would normally expect a skirt, and a halter neck top that gave about as much cover as a pocket handkerchief on top of the dome. The brief asked to see the outfit on her so he could deliver his opinion. When JC obliged, he started sweating, tore off his wig, popped his tabs, said it was legal as long as she didn't move or breath, waived his fee and said he had to go urgently to the WC. So the outfit was at least as hot as the car!
So there was poor JC, Jimmy Choo platform to the metal, trying to avoid public embarrassment and a criminal record, when she passed a blue light job - on the inside - and went through a spy camera, all at about 180mph. They tried to catch her, which made it worse. JC was moving in the car, so had visions of being nicked for public indecency and, much worse, being photographed by the paps in a candy floss outfit next to a red car.
The girl was, as you can imagine, extremely motivated, so she got away, no probs.
Anyway, Bert started asking me who was driving and what speed they were doing, from which I sussed that they had no evidence, so I told him to sod off or I would set the dogs on him. Once she had stepped into the light, I noticed that Tracey was quite cute, in a Gestapo-ish sort of way, so I took her phone number and arranged a date - but that's another story.
I was a bit miffed and called up JC to ask why she hadn't told me, at least so I could like cover for her. But when she explained the whole story, one had to sympathise. What decent girl would want to be convicted of clashing colours in a public place?
More anon.
Take care.
Justin
I'm so rich, important and devastatingly attractive that you must all be dying to hear more from me.
Well, when I left you, I was heading for Cannes with JC. She had told me that the disgusting film festival had finished, so I thought it would be safe to jump in a jet and fly down there for a couple of days of sun and the odd party. As usual, JC had got it like so wrong. The Gallic oscars were still in full swing.
When we arrived, it was absolutely like, you know, gross, if you know what I mean. The place was running alive with posey cinema wannabes, unshaven, sweaty paparazzi and crowds of Froggy plebs smelling of garlic. The most disgusting swathe of humanity I have seen since the last time Daddy invited the local peasants up to the stately pile in Suffolk for the annual "feed cheese and pickle sandwiches and pints of beer to the poor and let their spotty kids (a kid is a working class child) leave sticky finger marks all over the F430" day he holds every August Bank Holiday. I've always thought the old man was barking to allow all those light-fingered oiks near the house, but he says it's doing his bit for society, whatever that is.
Anyway, even though the Lear driver had jammed down the joy stick all the way down there, by the time we arrived, it was like 2am. I called the Intercontinental and got my usual suite for the night for a bit of shut eye, and some serious amends-making by JC! Pierre, the driver had to negotiate the Maybach through crowds of really y' know revolting sub-humanity milling on the streets to get there. I would have put my foot down and ploughed through them, but Pierre (I don't know what his real name is, but I always call Frenchmen Pierre to avoid confusion) told me that they have laws against that sort of thing in France. Then he started muttering about prisons, guillotines and human rights, so I closed the divider and turned up the Cold Play track to drown out his pigeon English ramblings.
I always get up early when I'm on holiday. So, about noon, we ordered some croissants and coffee in the room. It was decision time. Would I get Pierre to take JC and I down to Monaco to get out on the yacht and avoid the seething peasants, or go back to London until the heat had died down. The weather was not perfect, so we went home.
That evening, I heard the Rotts going like wild outside. I looked on the CCTV and saw a police car at the gate, so I buzzed him in. When he drove up to the house, the Rotts were jumping all over it and two plod, one male and one who appeared vaguely female, were cowering inside screaming "get them off".
So, I put the puppies in the garage and invited Bert and Tracey, as I later discovered were their names, in for a chat. Couldn't figure out what they you know wanted at this point. They don't normally send sort of uniformed oiks out for fraud or tax evasion, and I knew I hadn't done anything else wrong.
Bert began, "Are you the owner of a Ferrari F430 registration number R1 CH?"
"Yes officer. But it's in the garage, so I know it hasn't been stolen or anything."
"No ... sir (have you ever noticed how the police can insert that crucial pause to make the word "sir" sound like an insult?). That's not what we are here for."
Anyway, to cut a long story short, it seems that when JC had gone up to Tundra Airport to collect the F430, she had broken one or two little laws on the way back, including overtaking a squad car on the M40 at about 180mph. This was their opinion because they couldn't pace her and the old speed cameras don't work if you are doing more than 150mph (couldn't say myself, of course!).
It turned out that JC, a very fashion conscious girl, had rushed off to the frozen north without dressing for the occasion. It was only when she got there that she realised that her sugar-pink halter top, micro mini-skirt and eight inch Jimmy Choo platforms, and matching pink-dyed (normally brunette) hair so like clashed with the red Ferrari. She thought, very understandably, that she would be like so dead if anyone saw her. So she jumped in the car and headed for the motorway via anonymous, unlit back roads and then bombed it back to SW3 as fast as she could.
To make things worse, this outfit was, shall we say, a tad revealing. In fact, before she wore it, she took a legal opinion on whether it would cause her to be nicked for public nudity. The outfit consisted of a belt where you would normally expect a skirt, and a halter neck top that gave about as much cover as a pocket handkerchief on top of the dome. The brief asked to see the outfit on her so he could deliver his opinion. When JC obliged, he started sweating, tore off his wig, popped his tabs, said it was legal as long as she didn't move or breath, waived his fee and said he had to go urgently to the WC. So the outfit was at least as hot as the car!
So there was poor JC, Jimmy Choo platform to the metal, trying to avoid public embarrassment and a criminal record, when she passed a blue light job - on the inside - and went through a spy camera, all at about 180mph. They tried to catch her, which made it worse. JC was moving in the car, so had visions of being nicked for public indecency and, much worse, being photographed by the paps in a candy floss outfit next to a red car.
The girl was, as you can imagine, extremely motivated, so she got away, no probs.
Anyway, Bert started asking me who was driving and what speed they were doing, from which I sussed that they had no evidence, so I told him to sod off or I would set the dogs on him. Once she had stepped into the light, I noticed that Tracey was quite cute, in a Gestapo-ish sort of way, so I took her phone number and arranged a date - but that's another story.
I was a bit miffed and called up JC to ask why she hadn't told me, at least so I could like cover for her. But when she explained the whole story, one had to sympathise. What decent girl would want to be convicted of clashing colours in a public place?
More anon.
Take care.
Justin
I Hate Blondes!
I am a tall, dark handsome man. I am extremely rich, so I have always been irresistibly attractive to the girls. In fact, women beat a path to my door, many with demands for child support - but that's what the ex directory number, offshore bank account - and the Rottweillers on the grounds - are for. The Rotts are partial to to the odd mouthful of single mother with babe in arms. Each to his own, I suppose.
I live in a stately home in Chelsea. I hate the country. It's full of dangerous animals, ugly people with strange accents and spotty children with missing teeth - and it usually stinks. Don't get me wrong, I like a bit of grass around the pile, but anywhere I live has to conform to the H20 rule, ie no more than 20 minutes from Harrods.
I was once tempted to buy a cottage in the country, a bit of a departure from the usual rule, and not a mistake I will make again, but I had heard that a small place not far from London called Leeds Castle was up for sale. So, I put Leeds in the sat nav and thought it would take me straight there. After driving for hours, Robo-Cow (as I call the bossy female voice that emits from the sat nav) announced in a superior way: "you have reached your destination".
"No way", I thought. "This can't be right, Robo-Cow. You've got it wrong this time, old girl" So I stopped a passer-by, a strange, tattooed, blonde woman, muttering in a peculiar northern dialect. Where is the castle? I asked. Y' won't find wun ov them 'ere lad," she intoned in her almost impenetrable dialect.
"But I came here to buy a country cottage. Fancied this one, as the ad says it has a moat round it,"
"Well, lad, there's soom ex cownsell 'ouses and fluts fer sell down t' street. I live in wun ov em meself."
Well, this was too much, so I headed straight for the nearest airport, left the Ferrarri for JC, the current girl friend, to pick up and caught the first private jet back to civilisation. (She is called JC because she has a Jimmy Choo loyalty card).
Lately, JC has been trying to con me into buying the Dome for her as a dressing room. She says her wardrobe is full. If I hinted that this was possible, she would be straight on the next Lear up there and nurse the F430 home. So I called her up, and she was out the door like a fox-hunter running from the Labour Party. Fortunately I made it back to Sloane Square just before closing time, so I was able to purge the smell of black pudding and pigeons from my nostrils with a nice bottle of vintage Krug while I listened to normal speech patterns again. Such a relief! You have no idea!
Anyway, enough about me. I titled this diary entry "I hate blondes". Let me explain why. I used to date girls of all shapes, sizes and hair colours, just as long as they were stunningly beautiful nymphomaniacs, utterly smitten with me and not too bright. In fact, I was an equal opportunity employer. That all changed last year. One of the girls I was dating was a cute, but none too bright blonde - ex Roedean, lovely accent and dress sense, sex mad, and an IQ of about 40. Perfect.
One evening, I was disturbed by loud banging on the door and the sound of a female shouting. The Rotts had not got the person, so I assumed she was a regular and opened the door. There was my blonde bimbo, one side of her long blonde hair all black and singed. "What happened to you" I asked (I couldn't care less really, but one was brought up to be polite.) "It's all your fault." She screamed. You should know better than to phone me while I'm doing the ironing."
Well, that was it. I dumped her, right there on the doorstep. Not too worried about the hair. She could have done something with it and come back to see me when she looked presentable again. But what do I want with a woman who is too stupid to hire a housekeeper to iron her smalls? Far too socialist for my liking. Don't judge me too harshly. I pressed 200 quid into her hand for a wig and a taxi home, before I called the dogs to show her to the gate.
Anyway, I'm bored with this. Haven't written this much since I left Eton. Besides, I'm off to Cannes this evening. Now that all those smelly tourists for the Film Festival have left, the place will be back to normal. Tata for now.
I live in a stately home in Chelsea. I hate the country. It's full of dangerous animals, ugly people with strange accents and spotty children with missing teeth - and it usually stinks. Don't get me wrong, I like a bit of grass around the pile, but anywhere I live has to conform to the H20 rule, ie no more than 20 minutes from Harrods.
I was once tempted to buy a cottage in the country, a bit of a departure from the usual rule, and not a mistake I will make again, but I had heard that a small place not far from London called Leeds Castle was up for sale. So, I put Leeds in the sat nav and thought it would take me straight there. After driving for hours, Robo-Cow (as I call the bossy female voice that emits from the sat nav) announced in a superior way: "you have reached your destination".
"No way", I thought. "This can't be right, Robo-Cow. You've got it wrong this time, old girl" So I stopped a passer-by, a strange, tattooed, blonde woman, muttering in a peculiar northern dialect. Where is the castle? I asked. Y' won't find wun ov them 'ere lad," she intoned in her almost impenetrable dialect.
"But I came here to buy a country cottage. Fancied this one, as the ad says it has a moat round it,"
"Well, lad, there's soom ex cownsell 'ouses and fluts fer sell down t' street. I live in wun ov em meself."
Well, this was too much, so I headed straight for the nearest airport, left the Ferrarri for JC, the current girl friend, to pick up and caught the first private jet back to civilisation. (She is called JC because she has a Jimmy Choo loyalty card).
Lately, JC has been trying to con me into buying the Dome for her as a dressing room. She says her wardrobe is full. If I hinted that this was possible, she would be straight on the next Lear up there and nurse the F430 home. So I called her up, and she was out the door like a fox-hunter running from the Labour Party. Fortunately I made it back to Sloane Square just before closing time, so I was able to purge the smell of black pudding and pigeons from my nostrils with a nice bottle of vintage Krug while I listened to normal speech patterns again. Such a relief! You have no idea!
Anyway, enough about me. I titled this diary entry "I hate blondes". Let me explain why. I used to date girls of all shapes, sizes and hair colours, just as long as they were stunningly beautiful nymphomaniacs, utterly smitten with me and not too bright. In fact, I was an equal opportunity employer. That all changed last year. One of the girls I was dating was a cute, but none too bright blonde - ex Roedean, lovely accent and dress sense, sex mad, and an IQ of about 40. Perfect.
One evening, I was disturbed by loud banging on the door and the sound of a female shouting. The Rotts had not got the person, so I assumed she was a regular and opened the door. There was my blonde bimbo, one side of her long blonde hair all black and singed. "What happened to you" I asked (I couldn't care less really, but one was brought up to be polite.) "It's all your fault." She screamed. You should know better than to phone me while I'm doing the ironing."
Well, that was it. I dumped her, right there on the doorstep. Not too worried about the hair. She could have done something with it and come back to see me when she looked presentable again. But what do I want with a woman who is too stupid to hire a housekeeper to iron her smalls? Far too socialist for my liking. Don't judge me too harshly. I pressed 200 quid into her hand for a wig and a taxi home, before I called the dogs to show her to the gate.
Anyway, I'm bored with this. Haven't written this much since I left Eton. Besides, I'm off to Cannes this evening. Now that all those smelly tourists for the Film Festival have left, the place will be back to normal. Tata for now.
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